


Whiskey and Soundscapes

by feveredsweetness



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Hannibal the Smooth Cannibal, M/M, Romance, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship, Will is a Mess, a Hot Mess, katz and dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8216068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feveredsweetness/pseuds/feveredsweetness
Summary: Will Graham wakes up, hungover, after an evening of booze, rock n'roll, and a hot new fling.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing this. This story was inspired by the song "Hands" by Barns Courtney, and includes some of his lyrics. Huge thank you to Meg for commissioning me and for always believing in me. <3

The phone shrills in Will Graham’s ear. His eyes fly open, bulging out of his tired skull as he rolls over in a panic, falling from off the couch, and onto the hard wood floor with a dull and heavy thud.

“Fuck.” He scowls, wincing in pain and wiping whiskey scented drool from off his rough jaw. 

Shaking his head, he blindly reaches for the phone. 

_Fucking Jack._

“Hello?” He musters, as he pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales through flat lips. 

Light too brightly shines through slats in the blinds of his motel room. The chatter outside of his window sets his teeth on edge; his brain swirling with the pangs of an all too familiar headache. 

“Will? Hello, Will? Did you leave your head on the pillow again?” Bev teasingly chastises. 

Will relieves his nose of pressure and rakes his now free hand through a thicket of curls. His mouth bends into a sarcastic smile.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he replies. “What’s with the check in?”

“Well, considering I haven’t seen you in 24 hours after you understandably ditched me in order to chase a fine piece of tail, I got worried that perhaps you woke up in an ice bath, sans kidney.”

His throat closes as a vivid blur of last evening pitches itself through his brain. 

“Ah, fuck. Bev, I am so sorry. Shit.”

A ring of laughter echoes through the receiver. 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll accept your apology when I see you again tonight for Barns Courtney’s last set. Oh, and you owe me whiskey. Big time.”

Will groans as his stomach squelches. His fist clenches as he tucks his head and swallows down regret in all of its acidity. 

Bev sniggers.

“Don’t miss Barns. Sober up, boy scout.” 

The line disconnects, and Will tosses the phone back onto its previous, mute gray cushion. 

He gathers himself and removes his smoke scented t-shirt and old blue boxers, changing into a black pair before throwing on clean jeans and a green plaid, long sleeved shirt. 

After hand-combing his hair and brushing his teeth, he grabs his wallet from the room’s round, white table and swings open the front door only to walk face first into a broad, firm, leather clad chest. 

Stumbling back, his wild blue eyes blow wide as he tries to form an apology.

This attempt is blocked by sculpted lips moving in tandem with his own as muscular arms cage him in the doorway before pushing him firmly yet gently back inside. 

Will hears the door slam shut. A groan blossoms, escaping into the other’s mouth as tongues twine together.

Suddenly, he’s delivered back into the warm, soothing, and weightless intoxication of the night before. The surrounding, unremarkable room fades as color floods in around them, and the Southern drawl of a rock-blues chorus intensifies the heated seduction of the moment. 

= = =  
_I kissed the poison on your lips ‘til I was paralyzed_  
_Now all the chemicals are burning right between my eyes_  
_All that you left me was a number, on the back of my hand…_

 

_His hands lift up and claim the back of the older man’s neck in an embrace. They smile into the kiss as dark swept curls and an ash blonde sweep of bangs brush against each other._

_Will parts, sucking in the whiskey flavored saliva from his reddened lower lip. His throat still pleasantly burns as blue meets maroon and captures, entrancing and alluring._

_Hannibal. Always the goddamn surprise._

_“Where y’at?” Will charmingly prods._

_Hannibal acknowledges the shift in the cadence of his voice; smooth with a subtle Louisianan rasp. The Big Easy is rooted deep in the younger man, even after years of having left their police force._

_A smile plays in the corners of Hannibal’s eyes as his mouth quirks ever so slightly._

_“Enjoying the soundscape,” he says amiably. “And the view.”_

_He steps closer into Will, grasping his hand from his side. A pen is produced from the older man’s leather jacket, leaving elegantly scribed numbers in its wake on the back of Will’s palm._

_A broad hand fits within the curve of Will’s neck, drawing him forward. He whispers sweet, foreign nothings in the empath’s ear before withdrawing and vanishing into the boisterous crowd._

_Will stumbles back onto his heels. A random show goer helps him settle, if only to spare their beer from spilling. He ignores them and blinks slowly, heat traveling to his lower belly._

_“Laissez les bons temps rouler,” he says to himself, heading off for more whiskey._

= = =

Anchoring hands set upon Will’s shoulders. The kiss suddenly breaks, and he fights against the budding whine in his throat. 

“Laba diena, mylimasis,” Hannibal utters as he places a chaste kiss on his upper cheek. 

The empath’s ears turn rosy red as his stomach somersaults. Beside himself, he chuckles. 

Hannibal grins in response, though it is short-lived. 

Behind the nonchalance and passionate reciprocation of his greeting, he could see that Will was coming back down into that darker region of his mind where fear binds the man in its tendrils, attempting to seduce him with lies of how the current situation cannot be and will not last.

His nose detects the sweat already beading at the back of the man’s neck. 

“Will,” he calmly tries to lure him to the present. “This is real. It can stay real.”

Will’s stare is deadened. He hears Hannibal’s reassurance from a great distance, as if funneled through the tin can telephone from his formative years.

He absentmindedly moves across the room to a plush chair, his footfall uneven with uncertainty, though he appears to forget his intention to even take the seat as a clutch for stability. 

“I saw you. I saw you and…” Will’s words fade as he swallows with an audible click of his throat, Adam’s apple trembling. He turns back to the man before him. His tongue runs over and behind his teeth before slipping out to flick across his lower lip. He finds his mouth has gone dry. His brows draw together as he fights against the skittish nature of his gaze, one limp hand furling and unfurling out of ingrained habit. 

“I just knew I wanted you,” Will says, his voice enriched by old Louisianan charm, warm with a raw and raspy undertone. 

_Like whiskey_ , Hannibal notes with a pleasured hum as he files this away for later. He stands tall before the younger man, though he poses no threat. Removing his leather jacket, he drapes it over an arm as he moves towards Will. Bright maroon eyes speckled with red and subtle hints of gold survey his twitchy host.

Hannibal’s lips twitch into an amused yet charmed smile.

“Will,” Hannibal says, before him now. 

Will watches him, scrutinizing every facial and body language tell.

Surely there’s a red flag here. There always is. He was born to live in scream smeared air, not the fine, civilized air of his most recent affair. 

Is this an affair?

Hannibal holds his gaze as he lays his jacket on the nearby chair and takes the empath’s unfurling hand into his own, gently turning it over in order to lightly run his fingers over the back. His phone number still faintly remains in pigments of indigo ink. His smile broadens, brightens even, as his teeth peek out from behind sculpted lips.

“Will,” Hannibal repeats, softer this time. Slower, as he tucks his head and ghosts over Will’s ear. His hand still holds the other’s with as much care as one tending to a lost heirloom. His free hand clutches the front of Will’s green plaid shirt, pulling him in closer to him.

“This is real.”

The man grows more pliant beneath Hannibal’s touch as a gasp puffs out of him. 

He simpers, mouth lingering over the other’s.

“I want you, too.” 

Will’s eyes flood with shocked relief, electrifying the blue, as his lips claim Hannibal’s in blessed joy.

**Author's Note:**

> “Where y’at?” is a standard NOLA greeting meaning “How are you?” or “What’s going on?” 
> 
> “Laissez les bons temps rouler” means “let the good times roll” in French. Commonly said in New Orleans. 
> 
> “Laba diena, mylimasis.” = "Good afternoon, beloved."
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos/comments. <3
> 
> **This work was commissioned. Want to know more? Go to splinteredbone.tumblr.com. :)


End file.
